If you work in an office setting, I am sure you have experienced this particular rant at least once in your professional career, if not on a daily basis. So let's say you are sitting at work. It's two days after Christmas, and a lot of people aren't in the office because they are on vacation. In one of the empty cubes next to you, there is a phone, and it starts ringing.

I'm not sure what the person on the other end of the line's reasoning was, but after the 100th or so ring, and if nobody picks up, it is probably a good indication that nobody is going to answer. Maybe that is just me though. The ringing always stops right before I convince myself to get up and walk over to the phone and hang it up. I always act this out in my head when this stuff happens just to relieve the stress that the ringing caused me. Finally there is a moment of silence. I hold my breath and wait for it. Ring ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring ring. There it is again! 100 more times! What the hell!? Seriously? A few hours later, the same thing all over again. Still nobody there to answer. Why even call? Try another number for God's sake. I swear the next time this happens I'm going to take my brass balls over to the desk and hang the damn phone up.

FAMILY GUY - "All I Really Want For Christmas"

Alright. So let's say you are hungry and decide to go to the grocery store to get something to eat. What do you buy? Pizza? Pizza rolls? Chicken nuggets? A steak? Fish sticks? One of those hot and ready whole chickens? Decisions, decisions.

What if while you were strolling through the isles, you got sidetracked and found yourself in front of the dog food sections. You see Beggin' Strips. You see cans of Alpo. You see Milkbones. You know, all that kind of stuff that DOGS EAT, right? And then your eyes focus in on one of the greasy, stinking ass hambones that is a $2.99 fillet mignon for your DOG. Still hungry, you pull it off of the rack and read the information on the back. Wait? What is this?

NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION?! You have got to be shitting me! But the thought of gnawing on a disgusting pig leg that smells like someone's colon exploded in your face was really going to hit the spot tonight. Blasted! Thank God for the warning on the label though, because surely you would have bought it for supper.

I once read a book that contained cheesy life lessons and food for thought. It covered random topics about stuff such as what color to paint a wall, how to negotiate buying a car, when to give flowers to someone, and so on and so forth. One of the tidbits was

Don't play cards.

I'm not really sure what my reasoning was at the time, but I decided to follow this rule. Of course, there were exceptions to when playing cards was okay, and most of those exceptions involved magic tricks, college, and beer. But other than that, I stayed away from cards. I survived the online gambling craze somehow. You won't find me sitting around a card table on random week nights with a bunch of acquaintances playing poker and smoking stogies. It's just not my thing.

A new exception to the rule is one that I will have to embrace - and that exception is surviving the holiday season. And that means family gatherings and a little card game called Euchre.

I have no idea how to play euchre. I don't know the strategies, the secret code words, or what it all means in the grand scheme of things. But I do know that I will learn this game of euchre before Sunday rolls around, because I will find myself in a high stakes game of "prove to everyone that you are not an idiot." I am too competitive not to play this game. And if I'm gonna play, I damn well better win. In between euchre games, I will play paper-rock-scissors with little kids 20 years younger than me, and I will beat them at that too.

Lesson: Learn how to play cards. Even if you hate playing cards, learn 'em. Figure out the basics, such as poker, euchre, blackjack, etc. Also learn the lingo. If you hear someone say "5 card stud," they might be talking about the time I held 5 cards, but they are probably talking about something else too.

Put all of your belongings in the security check-point bins with a quickness.

Walk through the X-ray scanner.

If you go through the new airport security thing, put your hands behind your head press your elbows back like your trying to pop your boobs out of your shirt. [Seriously. I got flagged to go through the new scanner at 5am and they instructed me to do the same maneuver. After I walked out of the new X-ray contraption, I had to stand in limbo-land and create small talk with the homeland security guy until i was waved to go through. I powers at be detected some sort of "threat" in my head and radioed in to the security guy to double check my head for possible security threats. He inspected my head but didn't find anything. My best guess is that my GOLDEN BRAINS set the scanners off. That's alright, I can live with that.]

Figure out the gate you have to go to.

Make a mental note of your boarding time.

Also make a note of your seat number and boarding zone number.

Sit and wait.

Get in line when your boarding zone is called, and refresh your memory as to where you will be sitting.

Walk down the ramp and prepare to board the plane.

Walk down the aisle to your seat.

Secure your carry-on bag as fast as possible and sit your ass down. This should take no longer than 10 seconds after you are standing in the row of your seat.

Fly.

Land.

Grab your bag, and evacuate the plane as fast as you can.

Stay out of every one's way.

Run to your next way point and repeat the steps above or exit the airport.

The key here, folks, is to know what you are doing, where you are going, and to move fast. The airport is not a place to walk around like you have your head cut off and wonder around aimlessly trying to get in other peoples way. Move move move. Go go go.

Yeehaw! I'm back from Texas and ready to introduce a new section to The Cow Show. The latest addition will contain life lessons from the #1 authority in the land, Deputy Cow. Guys and Gals, I give you...

There is nothing better than getting a massage after running a marathon. I enjoy declaring the day I get a massage as "King for the day." No matter what happens that day, I am King. Yesterday was no exception. In fact, I literally was king because Kathy (my kickass massage therapist) actually gave me a crown after I walked in her office. She even decorated it. To top it off, the damned thing even fit my head. Then I got my massage, which was unbelievable, and my morale when from 1 to 100 in an hour. King. For. The. Day. If you live in the Dayton-area and need a massage, hit me up and I'll give you her contact information. You won't be disappointed.

In my opinion, you're not a real man unless you have at least one "stepped in dog shit" story. I can't tell you exactly when the topic will come up - but it will come up. Maybe you are talking about dogs. Maybe you are talking about poo. Maybe, just maybe, you are talking about pooping dogs. Perhaps someone is telling you about a crappy day they are having and you decide to 1-UP them with your "Oh yeah? Well I stepped in dog shit this morning!" story. It happens. I'm not trying to be gross. It just happens.

I've got two stories. Before I begin, the inspiration for this happened earlier this week when I was returning The Dark Knight to it's owner, Mr. Gregory E. Just about the time I pulled out of the driveway, I noticed a horrible smell. FML. That is... sniff sniff... that is dogshit. I took my shoe off and turned it over to check it out. Clean. Driving down the road, I checked the other one (don't worry, I had cruise control on, and a seatbelt fastened to my chest). I looked at the bottom of the other shoe. Splash 1 Goose. Dogshit. I took the shoe off and drove barefoot to the home of The Man, praying to God that I didn't get dogshit on anything inside the PT.

Stepping in Dog Shit Story #1

When I was in high school, I had a bunk bed/futon. I slept on the top bunk. The bottom bunk was folded into a couch. One morning, I woke up late and sprung up out of my slumber. Instead of climbing down the ladder off the futon, I cannon-balled off the top bunk and landed on my bedroom floor. After all, I was a finely tuned athletic machine at 18 years old, so this wasn't a big deal. Well, on this particular morning, I jumped off the top bunk and when I hit the ground, I noticed something was wrong. Very wrong. My left foot landed safely, but my right foot felt... weird. Squishy weird. I was wearing socks, but as I kicked my foot up to investigate, I realized that the bottom of my sock was covered in dogshit. In short, I jumped 10 feet from the air and landed in dogshit.

Stepping in Dog Shit Story #2

This one is worse. When Bo was little, he got a bad case of the runs. He still didn't know the difference from pooping in my bedroom and pooping outside. One day, he took a crap on the new wood floors that Greg Terry installed on my bedroom floor. When I got out of bed that morning, I stood up and took a step towards the door and felt that same feeling I had back in high school once. But this time, I wasn't wearing any socks. I looked down and saw poop squished between my toes. Hot poop. Fresh, hot poop. I didn't get it completely at first and took a few steps and tracked the poop through my bedroom before I realized what happened. I stepped in a hot pile of dogshit.

This time around, we've got quite the doozy for you. Thanks to "Rat Face" Aaron Rodgers and the Green Bay Packers, the last two teams they have played, the Cowboys and the Vikings, have both ended up in a total blowout that resulted in the coach on the losing team getting fired. Those coaches would be Wade Phillips and Brad Childress. Now before you ask yourself why those names sound so familiar, I will tell you. They were the last two Idiot's of the Week!

Continuing the trend of football coaches that also happen to be idiots, I bring you this week's idiot: Brad Childress. Personally, I could care less. As long as the Packers beat the Vikings on Sunday. I guess all the Vikings hate Childress because he is an idiot. PorkRice thinks he is a huge idiot. So much, in fact, that he already knows who will take over the helm for the Vikings next year.

If you don't get the joke, he wants John Gruden to be the next coach. John Gruden looks like Chucky.

I'm not a morning person. Never have been. Never will be. My mornings typically start off at 3am, 5am, and 5:30am when Bo wakes me up for some random reason. As soon as I fall asleep, I'm back up again. Nightmares excluded. The morning ritual consists of laying in bed delaying the inevitable for 20 minutes while I listen to the sweet sounds of my alarm clock, as sampled below;

When I eventually rise out of bed, I relive the Home Alone 2 "race through the airport scene." After that, I shower, find some clothes to wear, take Bo outside, prepare Bo's anti-seizure cocktail, bring Bo back inside, lock the doors, stuff my backpack full of Diet Coke, whisper a few sweet nothings in Bo's ear, curse the world to infinity, lock more doors, and hop in my car. When I get in my car, I turn on the heated seats and put on my sunglasses. Yes, the time change has kicked in, and it is still in that time of the day when the sun can't decide whether it is coming up or just gonna sit there, but I put the sunglasses on. I'm not a morning person. I just crawled out of my cave, and now I have to face the world. As soon as I hit the highway, I am bathed in sunlight. The sun has decided to rise up just as it does every morning, but it shines an extra beam of light straight in my retinas. I can't see at all. I am constantly paranoid of the idiots around me while driving, and this is a 45 second window where I am at my weakest. I can't see. The sun is in my face. It hates me. I'm not a morning person. The sun in my face turns to road rage and by the time I merge onto the next highway, I am finally able to see again. An hour after the alarm goes off, I open my eyes for the first time. If today was "Opposite Day," I would describe this moment as being "happy as a clam." But I don't really like that saying, because when I hear people say that it pisses me off. How the hell can a clam be happy anyways? Albeit, it is the summary of my mornings. Every morning. Sun in my face. Pissed off. Can't see. I'm not a morning person.

I am fascinated by all these @pps that allow me to morph a picture of someone or something into a zombie or a random creature. I discovered this little gem called Alien booth over the weekend and found it to be quite the crowd pleaser. When you load the @pp, you have to put your thumb on the circle for a "DNA scan" to open it up. Kinda cheesy, kinda kick ass. Next, you have to load a picture or take one on the spot, and then line up the eyes and mouth so the @pp can work it's magic. Here are two samples:

It's been a whole year since I started this blog, folks. 365 days, 466 posts, 10,000+ hits, and 17 followers later, I am at the one year anniversary of something that I originally created on a whim and saw before my eyes transform into something I would consider "special." My original intent for this thing was to make sure I wrote something every single day of my life for a whole year. For the most part, I held to that self-promise and delivered content in some form or another on a daily basis. To put it into perspective, over the last year, if you copy + pasted all of the junk on my blog and put it into a Word document, you would come up with a masterpiece(?) that was 377 pages long. Yes. 377 pages. Of stuff I wrote. During my "free" time. Just for shits and giggles. 377. Not that this was some sort of epic struggle, but I definitely couldn't have found the inspiration to keep on keeping on if it wasn't for a lot of people.

Whether you are someone in my personal life, professional life, or some random person that keeps coming to my blog - I would like to thank you. This whole thing went from a random idea --> personal goal --> actual blog --> countless "Hey, check out my blog" phone calls --> hardcore dedication to writing something every night --> obsessing over blog --> HTML coding --> drinking beer --> re-registering URLs --> skipping out on Friday nights for some reason to "blog" --> feelings of paranoia that the wrong person would discover my blog at the right time --> not caring --> Idiot/How To/Rants of the Week --> countless hours writing and scouring Youtube --> and so on and so forth.

The response for doing this has been tremendous, and again, I want to thank everyone for reading what I have to say and bringing it up with me in our daily interactions. It is a kick ass feeling to talk to someone and hear them say "oh yeah, I read that on your blog." So again, thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, and inspiring me to do something that I love doing. Happy Birthday to The Cow Show, and I wish it many more years to come.